Cold Blood
by Penname wa Silver B
Summary: A one-shot, morbid tale centering around an Argonian assassin.


(Disclaimer: Morrowind belongs to me. No, seriously. I'm joking, if you couldn't tell. Morrowind belongs to those wonderful people at Bethesda and...other people.)  
  
A weathered, bloodstained book lay on the ground. It had been written in by none other than the famed Argonian murderess, Briarclaw:  
  
"I am Nerevarine, the legendary reincarnation of Nerevar; that is true, for Ur himself told me so. But I won't be defeating Dagoth Ur, if that's what you've heard. I've been to see him, and it wasn't worth the trip. Let him rot under that volcano, with only his pathetic mutilant of a God, warped Daedra, Corprus stalkers and risen undead to accompany him. I won't be the pawn of an old legend. Sorry to disappoint.  
  
"Nerevarine is my more popular title, but few--if any--recognize me by it. Most know me as Briar--short for Briarclaw--the female Argonian, a ruthless and powerful assassin of Morag Tong, and criminal of multiple offenses. Many hate me. Some don't. Few like me, and those that do care only for my service to them. My tactics are blunt, and I feel that Eno Hlaalu's failure to assign me new victims is a polite way of laying me off, lest I flay him next. I am powerful, indeed.  
  
"Some may wonder why I have killed so many. But it is no wonder. How would you feel, scorned by this land, elite Dunmer and Imperials telling you to spit it out or hit the road? I see no reason I should allow many of them to live, let alone protect them as the legend wishes me to. Let them feel the business end of my claymore, and allow them to bleed upon it; let the passersby stop and stare in horror as I exhibit my power, slaying Hlaalu officials in broad daylight without any armor myself and winning without a scratch. I do not care what their small minds think; I do not care if most view me as evil, as heartless. I do what I must to survive, and I pay my dues where they're owed. I do not kiss up to my Argonian fellows, as I have found all races to be equally abhorrent, yet I have taken a special loathing to the Native Dunmer. Ironic then, isn't it, that in my past life I was their leader and protector?  
  
"They should be wise enough to avoid the Corprus. If they become stalkers and I slay them, it was their own fault, and that is the cold and simple truth.  
  
  
  
"Yes, I loved once. A Nordic man whose name my hardened heart has shut out; he was slain by thieves. My accompanying travellers escaped with their lives, two having run off, as did the murderers of my only friend; for that I did not forgive them.   
  
  
  
"It was soon after I realized my powers--deep ones, forbidden ones. I was now more powerful than Dagoth Ur, even if I couldn't kill him. I had no need for companions to help me fight; I slew the one that had stayed with me, and when I found the ones that had fled, I told them of the former's fate. They struck at me, and I felled them. Soon after, I killed the murderous thieves; their deaths were the slowest of all. Since then, I have killed any and all thieves whose misfortune it has been that I found them. It was upon the death of a wizardess thief I searched her corpse and found my beloved claymore, Chrysamere. I suspect that Chrysamere and the dried head of a long-dead Argonian named Scourge shall be the only friends I'll know for the rest of this long, lonely life. I hate Morrowind, and all its inhabitants; I suspect my loathing far exceeds that of Dagoth Ur. Perhaps he should be the valiant hero slaying me."  
  
It seemed quite clear that the villain was mentally ill, as the last entries, brief and unconnected, listed the slow spiritual death of the infamous reptilian:  
  
"I have deposited the head of Scourge in a small cottage. I cannot remember where it is...most likely near Vivec.   
  
"The Dwemer ghosts are the only to ever overcome me. I nearly died in there, even with my powers. I'll never visit those ruins again, or any other of that kind...how could it be, that beings of such great power and intelligence, could die off whereas the inferior races have flourished?  
  
Perhaps they were lonely, lonely as I. Perhaps it was that which did them in, for power and intelligence can never equal happiness, as I have long known. To return to Black Marsh...Oh, how I wish I could. But my family is dead now. I grit my teeth whenever some fool dares speak of that land and how it is being overcome, my kind enslaved.  
  
  
  
"Many days have passed, and still Eno has no use of me. I grow lonelier and lonelier as time goes by, with no deaths to distract me...I stare at the cold, dirtied blade of my weapon and pity myself, that it is all I have near to me.  
  
"So many wish to slay me. I wish to slay myself. There is nothing more for me...I am a Scrib. No, less than a Scrib; I don't merely give nothing to the world around me, I take away from it. I am as Corprus, and yet I am not immortal. Here I write my final entry, and give final pondering on my bitter life; it makes me shudder, and hope that the reincarnation of Nerevarine would fare better than its previous lives. Now I shall take my own life with Chrysamere and lay the weapon here as I die beside it, in hopes whoever finds these sad remains would care for the enchanted claymore better than I...for I cannot even care for something which has no life.  
  
-Briarclaw"  
  
  
  
A short distance from the book was the Chrysamere the tattered pages described, and next to that the apparent corpse of Briarclaw. Yet as Socucius drew near it, grimacing that he'd had dealings in the release of such a foul creature upon Morrowind, he found that the beast stirred yet. For a moment, he considered killing it, wondering whether that would be a kindness or a cruelty to the animal, and wondering further which he wished upon it. But he could not delay his duties; he had been sent to find this criminal--in the end, victim of a failed suicide attempt upon this barren road--and ship it back to Black Marsh, where the officials there would deal with it. It...yes, it didn't seem worthy of a gender, nor did it clearly display one, though supposedly female. One of the Imperial soldiers with him gently picked up the thing, which was surprisingly light, malnourished, in fact. Socucius leading the way, they walked back to Pelagiad--known to be Briar's favorite town, so it wasn't any surprise she was found near it--where they rested for the night, then walked to Vivec and took a siltstrider back to Seyda Neen.  
  
*******  
  
I stir slowly from my dreams, prophetic ones; I feel the rocking of a boat and hear the slapping of water against the hull. It as just as it was when I arrived in Morrowind that morning...is this death? A cruel, everlasting mockery of the beginning of my journey into that land with a diseased volcano for a heart? Perhaps I was better off living--either way I suffer, at least I wouldn't be bored.  
  
But, no; this cabin is different, the boat is different, I can tell right now as I slowly awake, and I am very alive. I groan in pain as my stomach growls; I haven't eaten in days. I need to bring about the forbidden power, for it has worn off; and yet, I feel no will to. I want to lie there, bundled in blankets upon the floor of the boat, and feel the pain of hunger, of the large gash on my side that unfortunately didn't prove fatal. The physical pain screams over the emotional, and I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks.   
  
I look out the small port window, at the splashing waves; it tugs at the Argonian in me, makes me want to swim. But looking around the room, I want something else; the company of the young but already scarred Dark Elf that had accompanied me those long nights I was being shipped away from my home to a strange land, one of the few Dunmer ever to have earned my respect. He, too was let off in Morrowind; I wonder what ever became of him? I shudder when I remember that foreign Dunmer are treated more harshly in Morrowind than any other race; the Natives seem to view them as traitors, in a way.   
  
I have no company in this small, dank room, not even my Chrysamere. I am stripped naked, not that it really matters on us beast races; I huddle, swathing myself in patchy bedclothes for warmth rather than dignity, due to my cold blood, and wait out the long trip. 


End file.
